Muse
by plaidshirtjimkirk
Summary: There's a certain topic that haiku-man enjoys writing about most of all...and a certain individual who equally enjoys inspiring it. [Established Kondo/Hijikata]


Thanks for checking this out! I'm deep in Kondo/Hijikata hell apparently. lmao

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 **.*Muse*.**

Hijikata writes poetry about all kinds of things, like...how warm morning sunlight sparkles and the way lace butterfly wings flit about the garden primroses. He writes about how the colors of dusk bleed up at the horizon to sweep across a canvas sky, and the piquant scent which emanates from an armful of freshly gathered herbs.

Sometimes his poetry is about a different kind of nature: human. His brush wavers to a rhythm that sketches the agony of war and the regret of loss and the torment of subsequent loneliness. Sometimes his words paint just the opposite, with ink blots blooming portraits of camaraderie and victory, of loyalty and what it's like for a soul to be bound by the ribbons of fathomless affection.

When he writes of that last subject it's clear there's a perpetual muse in mind, for those pieces carry a striking sense of captivation not found in his other work. They bear a very particular, very consistent caliber of emotion: raw and strong, and only the gods know how that much feeling can be compressed into just a handful of words.

The few with the privilege of seeing Hijikata's writing never ask for clarification about who he thinks of while authoring these tiny masterpieces; even if they did, he surely wouldn't confess...but one doesn't spend years living alongside another without learning a few things on the way.

So, Kondo stays quiet and bates his breath, peruses what he's come to realize is the result of his influence...then simply lets his lips twitch upward and eventually settles on saying, "It's beautiful."

He goes no further than that; feigns ignorance so Toshi will continue to believe that he has no idea these haiku are about him—if only so he'll keep writing more and more:

About the warmth of his arms and the pleasant scent of his hair, about the comfort Toshi gains from holding his hand and the peace his smile grants him. ...About today, about yesterday, about tomorrow and onward...

"Really," Kondo insists to the pensive silence, keeping this treasure of bound paper and ink in his loving possession. "You have a gift."

"...Shut up." Fluster puts a tremble in Toshi's soft reply. He tosses his face to the side and huffs, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Don't flatter me." His eyes wander back to the corners though, carefully studying through a veil of wispy bangs.

Kondo's lashes fall with a single nod. He doesn't press, doesn't say what's begging to be spoken, just opens his eyes and sets the book gently upon the low table.

He's never had a muse before, so he can't see how color spreads across the tatami as his fingertips slowly walk the short space dividing them...can't feel the increase in Toshi's heartbeat as he leans forth to brush a feather-light caress against his cheek. He doesn't even notice that the dusting of pink left in its wake is his own doing.

Still, Kondo is intent on kissing him, intent on once again becoming the unlikely inspiration that manages to rouse images of beauty he believes he doesn't possess.

Toshi somehow sees them there though, just as he always finds the good in him and doesn't allow him to say otherwise; it's apparent especially now in the softening of his gaze, how he looks at him with such reverence that it's overwhelming.

What he's done to deserve this adoration escapes Kondo yet again, and emotion swells as his chest becomes tight—as he wonders how he could ever express that the depth of Toshi's love is as mutual as it is relentless.

" _Toshi_."

It's an ardent whisper before their lips meet, before they breathe the same breath and revel and touch...before their individuality obscures as Toshi's hands wrench Kondo's loosened yukata, until it threatens to tear.

Is it good enough? Did he once more sufficiently serve his purpose as Hijikata's influence? Kondo doesn't know. Either way, the morning arrives too soon and they part company with another kiss, slow and indulgent.

By that evening, several new pieces await Kondo's attention, each echoing a fervent insistence on the topic of eternity, and he begins to realize his questions from the previous night have answers. Nevertheless, there are unspoken rules to abide by, so he resolves to once again smile softly and tries to not acknowledge the familiar hint of blush warming Toshi's face.

Hijikata knows Kondo's obtuseness is an act, just as Kondo knows the reverse. They're both entirely aware, but it's a dance they do and the number repeats, again and again and again.

The books fill up fast, like the years they spend together.

 _time claims the new blooms_  
 _but our spring is eternal_  
 _as I walk with you_

Absurd as it might be, there's contentment to continue on this way without the spilling of careless and dramatic confessions through the lips—for oftentimes it's what isn't said directly which speaks the loudest of all.

 _Toshi_... He smiles through the darkness of their shared room and brushes his foot against its smaller companion.

 _Kat-chan_. His eyes soften in return.

Indeed, for a reticent poet and his taciturn muse, this was more than enough. They fall asleep in each other's arms, holding tight to all they could ever want and everything they would ever need.

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Many many thanks for reading! don't know why this happened, honestly. It was totally unexpected. I wanted to make a post on my blog about how Hijikata's love poetry is written with Kondo in mind but he won't admit it...and this was the result. lol


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